


You are a fever I am learning to live with

by Eustace (Sibylline)



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Drunken misunderstandings and make-outs, I mean it's Quentin Coldwater of course there are self-esteem issues., M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 16:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9244199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibylline/pseuds/Eustace
Summary: In the wake of Quentin's "The World in the Walls" hallucination, Quentin tries to thank Penny for saving him.So maybe I binge-watched the Magicians; maybe I noticed that Penny has a thing for shoving Quentin into walls and Quentin doesn't necessarily mind it. Sexual tension: in the words of Mayakovsky, “Why don't you two just fuck?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> No actual fucking, but they're both intoxicated when they have a sexual encounter, so just be forewarned if that sort of thing is not your style. Also I may have insulted half of Florida via Penny, sorry about that (but Penny's not sorry at all).
> 
> Leave comments if that's your style because that would make me very pleased.
> 
> (title from Straw House, Straw Dog by Richard Siken)

He would stay out of the kid’s head, he would, he _tries_ , but Quentin doesn’t put up even the semblance of a shield, leaves his mind unprotected, leaves his thoughts lying around in the open, tangles of vines and sharp pebbles that catch at his ankles and stab into his soles. And he’s cobbling together psychic jackboots, he’s working on it, but if Quentin could _just shield his goddamned mind,_ that would be ever. so. helpful.

 

He knows that Quentin is walking wounded from the moment the kid sat down beside him in the examination hall, crooked tie and all, half-strangling himself trying to remove his own sweater, oozing despair and the wish to vanish into the floor, and praying to feel something, anything better than that.  He wouldn't need to be a psychic to see it, the way he tucks his body into himself, hunches his shoulders inwards, bracing for some inevitable blow. The way he’s fighting to run away from himself.

 

Taylor Swift songs are hardly the worst of it, but it doesn’t stop him from appreciating the way that Quentin’s mind goes stunned and still when he crowds him up against that tree. Quentin’s up on his tiptoes, the heel of Penny’s hand is against Quentin’s sternum, and he can feel his heartbeat kick through bone and flesh and Quentin’s shitty thermal tee. Doesn’t stop Penny from wanting to shove a little harder, if that’s what’ll _make. him. shut. up._ Doesn’t stop Penny from thinking about the look on his face even days, weeks, later.

 

Maybe Kady’s right, he is a mind slut, he can’t keep his metaphorical (or literal) hands to himself. Maybe Fogg is right (it pains Penny to even think that) about that brittle shell of insouciance and violence, but  wrong about what that veneer covers: not a well of self-pity, but rather fathoms of self-loathing. And when Penny has enough alcohol in his veins and enough brightly-colored pills in his stomach he can admit that part of what he loathes in Quentin is what he hates in himself.

That aching hunger to belong, torn between the desire to _be seen_ and the desire to vanish entirely.

Penny has had a lot more experience, he's spent years strangling both desires, is so close to accepting that he will always be a stranger. Life has prepared him better for accepting that reality. When you grow up as a brown boy in Florida, you can see the futility of wanting to belong-- not the part of Florida with beaches and streets with conversations in five languages mixing in a joyful riot, but the part of Florida that's the inland, inbred cousin of the Deep South, sweat and swamp air that lays as heavy on your skin as the casual racism in everyone else's heads. When you can see the sorts of things in other people's heads, you stop wanting to be one of them; on bad days, you stop wanting to belong in the same phylogenetic class, let alone wanting to be _friends._

 

Who thought there were downsides to being a white boy raised in Brooklyn, all the privileges of money and the patriarchy? But Quentin still seems to believe that if he were only good enough, he would be loved. Learn French and Latin, play the oboe, win City-wide Physics WizKid of the Year, get eight acceptance letters in the mail, wonder why you still feel empty, and think that it must be the fault of some deep flaw within yourself. Poor white boy, all those shiny trophies and letters, the world is his oyster, isn’t it? Penny could tell him that oyster’s spent three days in the Florida sun, it’s not safe to eat any more, he’s just going to make himself sick.

 

And then Quentin’s been expelled. And maybe Penny saw an easy solution,  a way to get him out of his head and out from under his skin; Penny’s always been an opportunistic motherfucker, when it came to finding ways to survive, and he has to stay here if he's going to stay sane. He can kill two birds with one stone. When Kady stops him, he’s got all his earthly possessions in a garbage bag, ready to walk out, and he’s got to make a choice. That’s what this shit is about, it’s his sanity on the line, and his life on the line, and he realizes suddenly that he _wants to live._ Throw Quentin under the bus, save the rest of them. Quentin thinks that he needs this, but he has an acceptance letter to Yale and another to Princeton, gargoyles and ivy-covered gates waiting to greet him, a family in Jersey waiting to catch him if he stumbles. So he tells the truth, or enough of it anyway.

 

But it’s done, and Quentin’s walking, barely seeing straight, expelled. Penny should be _glad._  But Quentin is unshielded, as always, and the only thing on his mind is a pro-con list between the sterile white walls and locked door of the inpatient psych ward and the benefits of simply not existing. It’s devolving rapidly into a pro-con list between a pint of vodka and the three months worth of Klonopin in the bottom drawer of the bedside table of his shitty apartment and his grandfather’s straight razor in the back of the same drawer; he was too much of a coward to use it to shave, but he’s kept it just the same, in case he was braver or desperate enough to use it for other things.

 

It's easier to _shove,_ put his fist to Quentin’s jaw. It’s easier to pin him to the cobblestones, grind a knee into the small of his back and twist his arm within an inch of the breaking point. Anything to make him _fight_ , make him _shut the fuck up_ and think about anything else, because Quentin’s mind is deep and dark enough to drown in and Penny’s having a hell of a time trying to scrabble his way out.

 

Penny’s surprised by the battle magic arced at his back; Quentin’s done it without thinking, it’s a deathwish flashing outward and mirrored back again, which is consistent with the entire pattern of Quentin’s life. And even as he’s flying through the air, Penny can still hear him thinking that perhaps gravity will have the mercy to break his neck when it brings him down. As they're led to the infirmary, it takes him a moment to realize that the guilt twisting in his stomach is not spillover from Quentin; it belongs to him alone.

 

It’s no accident that he shows him the Emerson’s in the infirmary, lets it twist and dangle in the light. No accident that he leaves it in the open that night. He feigns sleep until Quentin plucks it from his hand, cold fingertips brushing his own; when he hears the slither of the chain as Quentin tucks it over his head and under his shirt, Penny can finally drift into sleep.

 

And if that ginger mind-wipe specialist hadn’t _taken_ the fucking Emerson’s, Penny wouldn’t have been summoned from sleep into Quentin’s nightmare, wouldn’t have had to experience the particular hell of off-key Taylor Swift abused as a summoning charm. He’d meant it when he’d said that real magicians protect themselves, and Quentin apparently was entirely incapable of self-preservation. He wondered what the fuck the Physical kids had put in the kid’s drink to mind-fuck him this far sideways, how stupid they could be. Anger and bitter sarcasm were always at Penny’s fingertips, a shield in the shape of a mask molded to his face, and he wears them well even in Quentin’s dreams.

But Quentin is curled in on himself, he looks younger and paler and smaller, buried in baggy sweats, wristbones jutting out of too-big sleeves. He’s got his knees to his chest and feet tucked under him ( _no shoelaces_ , Penny’s mind supplies, _suicide risk_ ) and Penny knew Quentin’s head was fucked, but it’s different to see him like _this_. Quentin's openness has always been a wound, half-healed, he's a shit liar with shittier wards, but this— this place is not that wound, but the knife.

But Penny has  a well of bitterness to draw upon, and when he feels a seed of panic unfurling in his stomach, he lets anger eat it up. Panic is worse than useless, pity is useless, but anger is a tool that he knows how to wield as sword and shield.

Penny shouts him out of his haze, shoves him up against the wall (and _why do they always end up like this, with Quentin’s back to a wall and Penny’s hands pinning him there?)_ Shakes him from catatonia into something more volatile. When he says, _find me,_ his voice cracks.  Penny had imagined it would be more satisfying, to have Quentin begging him; yeah, he’s thought about it. But Quentin begs like he’s praying, eyes like an animal trapped and ready to chew through his own bones to find a way out. So Penny wakes in a cold sweat with all sleep banished, stumbles out into daylight to save his dumb ass again.  

 

When Quentin’s back among the living, Penny watches him for a second as he’s sprawled on the couch, reeling and gasping but alive and conscious. Watches Eliot petting his hair. Then he fucks right off. Fogg is there, Eliot only too ready to medicate him with brandy, and Quentin is in capable enough hands. Quentin is alive, Penny has done his part. Maybe Penny can finally get some fucking sleep.

He can’t fucking sleep. The psychic house is claustrophobic, like some new age store full of incense and brocade curtains, and worst of all, full of _psychics_ , with all their touchy-feely bullshit, who keep looking him with something like sympathy and something closer to pity than he's comfortable with. He’d rather be alone than this, being alone and still surrounded by people. He slams up another layer of shields, takes an adderall and pockets two joints and a flask, and stalks out of the house. He’s not sure what combination of substances it’s going to take to get Quentin Coldwater out of his mind, but he intends to figure it out.

There’s nothing about Quentin that should compel him; Quentin is a middling magician, bright enough but pales in comparison to Alice (but then, who among them does not; when a light is bright enough, it casts enough shadows that anyone can find a place to hide). He utterly lacks social graces. Stumbles in conversation, words moving around him while he stutters and tries to tack language to what he means. He should be unremarkable, but he _isn't._

Penny’s camped out on a bench, nicely shielded by a wall on one side, hedgerows on the other, he’s worked through one joint and he’s halfway to drunk. The sun’s long since skulked off over the horizon, but he’s conjured up a few little orbs so he can read. And yeah, it’s _Fillory and Further,_ book one, but it’s research, fuck you very much. He prefers to stay alive, if possible, and would like to find a way to avoid death at the hands of the moth-man. If reading kiddie books is what it takes, it’s a sacrifice he’ll have to make.

(And if he’s being truthful with himself, they don’t suck as much as he’d imagined.)

Then Quentin shows up. (Penny barely has time to tuck the book under the bench, glad that the cover is unmarked) Quentin's a little glassy-eyed, and Penny’s unsurprised, really because trusts Eliot to be generous with the booze, if he trusts him at all. His hair is damp and skin is pink, like he’s been trying to scrub the dirty fingerprints of the spell from his body. But he’s drunk enough that Penny guesses that he’s trying to burn it out with something stronger than soap. Who is Penny to judge, he knows enough about self-medication.

“What the fuck do you want, Coldwater?” 

“Uh, to thank you? You saved my life.” He says, then amends, “Well, saved me from being trapped in my own head. Which would be worse than dying. so. I thought? I wanted to say thanks. And uh. Apologize for bothering you. And for the Taylor Swift?” Penny just stares at him, wonders if this is real or if he took too much of something. Makes note of the wall behind them, wonders if he’ll end up shoving Quentin up against it.

And Quentin just keeps stumbling on. “Okay. I know you don’t like me, which, I get it, I don’t really like me sometimes. Which I guess you know now, so. Sorry for that too. But you helped me. And you didn’t have to. So I felt like I should tell you thanks.”  His voice keeps getting softer, like he’s running out of words to throw into the space between them.

“You’re welcome.” Quentin stares at his hands like he doesn't know what to do with them, like the lines of his palms might hold the secret to this conversation; Penny adds, “I’m glad that you're not dead. Why don’t you go home and sleep it off, and in the morning, we can both forget that this ever happened?”

Quentin’s eyes snap up to his. “I never want to go to sleep again,” he says, fervent.

“Look, are you scared that I’m going to tell your little friends what the inside of your head looks like? Is that why you’re here? I might be a dick, but I’m not that kind of dick.” Penny realizes his voice is too loud, that he’s actually angry now, that Quentin would even think that. He breathes out and says, low and vicious, “So why don’t you fuck off, have your buddies make you another drink, and leave me the _fuck_ alone?” Quentin flinches like he’s been slapped.

“I’m _not-”_ he snaps his mouth shut, bites down hard on his bottom lip, hunches his shoulders in. Takes in a deep breath, makes himself meet Penny’s eyes. He’s so earnest, Penny can’t stand it. “Look, I fucking _owe you._ I’ll leave you alone, okay? Just. Fuck. If- If there’s anything I can do to thank you.” Penny looks heavenward, imploring any available force to save him, then closes his eyes and sighs.

“You can suck my dick, Quentin.” And what he expects is for Quentin to storm off into the darkness, back home to the Physical kids, bitch about what an asshole Penny is. And what he should have said was, _let’s not talk about it,_ or _forget about it._ But that’s not what he said

And Quentin goes to his knees on the damp grass, hands fumbling at Penny’s belt, and Penny is momentarily frozen.

Then he catches Quentin by the hair, hand at the base of his skull, pulls him back, and he can feel the heat of Quentin’s hands through a layer of denim where they've gone still on his thighs. Penny’s other hand is on Quentin's chin, forces him to tilt his face up. His pupils are blown, eyes wide and dark and fixed on Penny’s, fairy lights illuminating the planes of his face; he swallows hard and Penny can feel the muscles of his throat working under his hand.

“You’re fucking serious?” Quentin tries to nod; Penny can feel his pulse under his hand, his hands starting to tremble on his thighs. He moves his hand to the front of Quentin’s shirt, keeps the other one tangled in his hair. “I’m not going to let you blow me in public, particularly not while you’re drunk.”

Quentin goes tense, catapulting toward rejection and humiliation, and _shit_ , that’s _not what I mean,_  "I don't want to do this cause you think you _owe_  me, that you have to, I need to know that you want this for _you."_ Jesus, is he unfamiliar with the concept of enthusiastic consent? Probably, it's a shitty, shitty world out there. 

 _"_ I want this," Quentin says, his voice low and ragged. "Penny. I _want_  this." And Jesus, there's a part of him that wants to keep Quentin like this, he looks so fucking pretty with his lips parted and the color high in his cheeks and his eyes so wide and hungry, he never wants to let this go.

But he's learned to take his chances when he's got them, so Penny pulls him up, slots his lips to Quentin’s. Quentin kisses back, gasps a little, Penny uses the opportunity to slide his tongue into Quentin’s mouth, wants to steal this like a thief, hold onto the taste of Quentin’s mouth, brandy and wine and blood from where Quentin’s bitten his own lip.

He releases his grip, cards his hand through Quentin’s hair. Quentin nearly unbalances, steadies his hands on Penny’s shoulders, presses closer, Penny pulls him in with a hand at the small of his back until he’s half-straddling him, pushing Penny against the back of the bench, and he’s better at this than Penny expected. When they break for air, they’re both panting. Quentin looks ruined, mouth red and hair wild around his face, and they’re both half-hard.

“We’re not going to fuck.” Penny says. “Not when you’re drunk and I’m high.”  Quentin’s still breathing hard, pressed against him, and Penny can feel the flash of his thoughts. “Yeah, you’re a grownup, fully capable and so forth, but I don’t want to do that while I’m high.” He moves his face a little closer, breathes into Quentin’s ear,

“Because if we do this, I want to be sure that I’ll remember _all of it."_ He pulls back, looks Quentin in the eyes. “You still want this when you’re sober, you know where to find me.”

“Okay. Yeah. Thanks.” Quentin stands and runs a hand through his hair.

“Do me a favor and stop thanking me. You wake up tomorrow and want to forget this ever happened--either way, I’ll teach you to shield properly, or you need to find someone else who will.”

Quentin suddenly looks stricken, as if he’s just had a revelation.

“What about Kady?”

“We have an understanding. I’m not cheating on her with you, Jesus, don’t look so scandalized.”

“If you- if you wake up tomorrow and change your mind. I’d understand.” Penny resists the urge to sigh.

“I appreciate that, but please shut up.” Penny pulls him in again, kisses him hard, lets him know that he means it. “Good night, Quentin Coldwater.”

Penny watches him retreat into the night before he extinguishes the fairy lights, one by one, then tucks his book under his arm and heads toward incense and brocade, glad for his long robes and coat and knowing that it won’t matter in a house filled with psychics.

So much for getting that boy off his mind.

 


End file.
